


Pursuit

by Sheriarty



Series: Blank Spaces [4]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, Arthur has some serious problems, Arthur is still intense as ever, Eames is not good at dealing with his own conflicted feelings, M/M, Misunderstandings, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, POV Arthur (Inception), Unresolved Sexual Tension, but so does Eames, not in the nice way, there might be guns invovled
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-17
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2021-02-07 20:46:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21464296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sheriarty/pseuds/Sheriarty
Summary: Another blank is being filled - what happened after Arthur's and Eames' first job in those 48 hours, before Arthur returned to Mal and Dom, ashamed and angry?
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Series: Blank Spaces [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1509056
Comments: 8
Kudos: 56





	Pursuit

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know about the Rating, but better safe than sorry?  
I hope you enjoy this, and apologies in advance, this one will hurt a bit.

# Pursuit

It is not difficult to find him. 

Arthur feels like he should be offended on principle about the lack of security measures Eames is using to cover his own tracks, but then again, it is only to Arthur’s advantage. The first time Dom had wanted Arthur to track Eames down it had at least taken ten hours.  
Now he pins the alpha’s location down in less than two, simply because the man used his credit card (379519270706049, American Express) to check into a hotel (Hyatt House Duesseldorf, Muehlenstrasse 34, Altstadt) that isn’t even out of town (Duesseldorf, Germany). 

As if he wants to be found. 

He does wants to be found, a small voice in Arthur’s brain provides. His heart flutters in a burst of confidence as he walks the last strides across the street (lights green, Germans only walk when its green, even if there are no cars) to the long, stone-flagged entrance of the luxurious hotel. Dark grey cobble paves the pathway, flanked by high marble pillars and perfectly geometrically cut bushes.  
A porter, male mid-forties, beta, stands to the right of the arching entrance gate, greeting him politely and with a trained smile, gesturing for him to proceed. Arthur knows how well his own looks fit into the ensemble. 

Normally, Arthur leaves after a job, immediately. At least a three-hour ride on the train, paid with cash, or a two-hour travel with a beforehand obtained car. He mostly tries to leave the country or the state and goes to find a relatively cheap motel or hostel where he stays for two days, paying with cash there, too.  
He takes a single room. The first night he doesn’t sleep, but sit in a chair, with his gun ready, waiting to be ambushed. Never surprised, always ready. 

After twenty-four hours of waiting and deeming the immediate danger ceased, he uses his laptop, if it is with him. When he is uncertain if it might be compromised, he searches for an internet café instead. If he is in a safe environment, he uses the various programs he accumulated over the time (mostly self-written or obtained from trustworthy sources), always on him on a flash drive. He makes sure to scan, secure and observe their work and most importantly - their escape. He checks that everything went smoothly, that the company, billionaire, politician, target, mark – whoever they stole from – doesn’t find any of them, doesn’t even search - or if they do, he makes damn sure they’re untraceable. He obliterates any hints of his team and himself from security cameras, protocols, sometimes sends viruses, bribe money. Sometimes sends warnings or threats if needed. 

He usually needs the rest of the 48 hours until meeting back up with Mal and Dom for that and only after reuniting with them does he allow himself to sleep.

He does none of that this time. 

Instead, he is walking into the brightly lit lobby of the hotel, nose curling slightly when it catches the faintest whiff of Eames’ scent. The alpha isn’t on suppressants anymore, either. The heavy chemical mix is still in the note, but not as strong as it has been while they were working together. Arthur’s own nose is finally recovering from the scent blockers and his own meds. He feels his skin itch. 

The light of the white and grey entrance hall is glaring, the illusion of almost clinical cleanliness, and Arthur narrows his eyes gently as they glide around. His senses are even more sensitive after the exposure to the meds. Two lifts to the left lead to the apartments from 001a to 250a and a large glass door shows a wooden patio with white loungers and small tables for the guests to enjoy the outdoor area of the hotel. To the right the grey carpet leads towards the reception, three people (three beta females, bored, mid-twenties, blonde, dark, blonde) standing in line by their computers, waiting for guests to give them a reason to get into motion (perfectly styled hair, too much make-up). 

Further along, another two lifts lead to the apartments 001b to 250b. Opposite of it is a small anteroom with comfortable couches, a few tables with magazines, a large vitreous container with fresh water and lemon slices and empty glasses next to it. Two betas sit there, a male by the magazines, a female looking out of the window, bored. Arthur doesn’t spare any of it more than a fleeting glance to take it in, his nose easily guiding him along, past the lifts, through the corridor (one light bulb is out, he notices) to the other glass door that leads towards the hotel’s own bar. If the receptionists notice he isn’t a guest (yet), they don’t comment. 

The light, when he enters the bar, is dim contrary to the lobby. Dim enough that he feels momentarily lost, resisting the urge to rub against his burning eyes (damn these meds). Faint music floats over to him (Ludovico Einaudi - Luce dei miei occhi), the piano notes soft and inviting, the atmosphere changing to warmth, slowness. There are twenty three people in total in the large area, five by the bar in the middle of the room, the rest scattered at the various seating areas, some sitting together by tables, eating something, drinking, some sitting together or alone in the booths or on couch seats, talking, holding their drinks. Two barkeeper, three waiters, all clothed in black, the logo of the hotel stitched into the collar. 

Arthur’s brown eyes take everything in in a split second, the faces, voices, scents – as a child, he never understood how people did not experience the world as he did. As an explosion of impressions, scents, colors, noises, movements, patterns – easily put into perspective and context, sorted and put away into boxes of organization in your head. 

Now he knows that people filter, shielding themselves against unnecessary input. He is labeled as observant, sharp, someone to notice every detail. For Arthur? It is simply the way he takes in the world around him. It is the way many omegas experience the world. 

Eames sits on a couch to the far left by the glass door that leads to another, smaller patio outside. He is sitting with his back to the wall, windows to the left, in the corner, so he has both the door of the patio and the door that Arthur just stepped through in his vision. A half-empty bottle of top-fermented dark beer (Altbier in German) is in his hand. 

The moment Arthur takes two steps into the bar Eames head slowly rises to meet his eyes. He doesn’t snap his gaze up, nor does he look particularly surprised. Nevertheless, Arthur notices how his shoulders tense up. 

Even with the suppressants and the scent blockers still lingering in his blood system, the alpha smells exquisite. Arthur feels the back of his throat burn with the wish to swallow, but he suppresses it, as he slowly, deliberately walks towards the man, past tables and chairs.  
Arthur comes to stand at the chair opposite of Eames’, looking down at him, blinking once, slowly in a silent demand. Eames stares back, and then sighs. It could look like defeat, the tension going out of him in sync with his breath, but Arthur sees the crease between his brows and the too tight grip he has on his glass as he lifts it to his lips to empty it in two big gulps. His lips. Arthur cannot resist swallowing against a dry throat then, watching Eames’ Adam’s apple bob as he drinks, light reflecting against the glass as he puts it back down onto the coaster. 

They don’t talk, don’t have to, as Eames puts a note next to his drink and stands up. Arthur’s nostril flare as a new wave of his scent hits him square in his face and he sees the gesture copied by Eames, the two of them watching each other for a second, before Eames relents and nods towards the way Arthur just came. 

He follows him, silently, eyes glued to his neck, while Eames leads them to the lifts. He keeps the exact distance that is still socially acceptable but signals his soon to be ownership nevertheless. 

Quiet Resource from Evelyn Stein sounds as they ascend to the second floor, the two of them standing opposite each other, silently, in the lift. Eames is clutching his own upper arms, crossed over his chest, looking down to Arthur’s shoes. Arthur studies him and himself in the mirror. His heart is hammering hart and slow against his chest. He swears Eames must be able to hear it. He didn’t shave this morning; Arthur wants to run his tongue over his stubble and hear the rasp as well as feel it. His eyes are almost completely black in his own reflection.

When he enters Eames’ room (number 234b) after the alpha, he feels as if stepping over more than just a threshold. His heart is in his throat in anticipation as he closes the door behind him, following into the large suite. Eames points him to the seating area by the balcony window, a cream-colored couch next to a sleek dark wooden table and an armchair in the same color of the couch. Arthur settles down, back straight, eyes not leaving Eames, who wanders over to the small kitchen niche to the right, dark marble tiles and anthracite colored cupboards. 

“Anything to drink?” 

His voice cuts through what had been an almost protective silent blanket Eames seemed to have had wrapped around himself since Arthur stepped into the bar. Arthur feels himself tense up, his heart stumbling. He is glad his hands are on his knees, curling into his pants to prevent from showing the fine tremors. 

“Scotch soda, thank you,” he hears himself answer, his own voice clipped and short. He doesn’t want to drink and they both know it. 

For a while, the only sound is the clinking of Eames making them both drinks. Arthur breaths through his nose, closing his eyes briefly. He should hurry up. Arthur wants to lunge from the couch and tackle him to the ground, pin him down. He smells so good. It feels as if it is getting stronger with every minute he is in his presence. 

“Cheers.” 

When Arthur opens his eyes again, Eames is sitting opposite of him in the armchair, offering him his drink. Their fingers brush, when he takes the glass and Arthur’s eyes zero in on it, breath stuttering in his chest. Eames takes his hand back and turns his attention to his own drink. Arthur notices how he tries to avoid eye contact. 

Arthur holds the cold glass in his hands, but his eyes don’t leave Eames, watching him intensely. His skin prickles, itches, it feels as if it is too small for his body, while the alpha’s scent surround him. The tension between them is charged.  
Arthur’s gaze flickers to the bed over Eames’ shoulder, and he swallows, his throat clicking in his own ears and when his gaze wanders back to Eames’ face, he freezes, because the grey eyes stare back, focused on him. 

“What are we doing here, Arthur?” Eames asks and he sounds wary, with a note of chagrin in his voice. Something else swings with it, almost dull, like defeat. As if knowing what is to come and surrendering. Good. He had better accept it.  
Arthur’s eyes flicker to the bed again and back to Eames, sees the slight irritation flash over his face briefly. 

“What are we doing?” Eames asks and Arthur frowns, giving the alpha a look, arching one dark brow. Isn’t it fucking obvious? 

“What do you think?” he replies, keeping himself from rolling his eyes, “We’re going to fuck, I thought that much was obvious.” 

Had he not been plain enough in his intention? Isn’t it logical what is about to happen, now with the job done, seeing they’re compatible? Does Arthur have to explain the concept of mating to him? Didn’t he pay attention in pre-school? Why else would Eames take him with him to his room? He can stop playing dumb. It doesn’t become him.  
He notices how Eames grey-blue eyes darken, pupils blown wide in the cool light of the hotel room, his hand tightening around the glass. Arthur’s pulse speeds up. 

“That’s a bad idea.” 

It is like a nagging stab with a knitting needle to his guts and Arthur breaths out angrily through his nose, eyes narrowing dangerously. Eames frowns warily, sensing the shift in the air and holds up one hand, before adding: “We don’t know anything about each other and the only reason you’re here is, what, because I smell good to you?” 

Is Eames actually fucking kidding him right now? 

“Are you serious? This is the fucking next logical step after meeting your mate.” Arthur asks, his voice sounding clipped and sharp to himself as he sets the glass down with a loud -clunk- sound onto the wooden table, getting up to his feet. Eames immediately melts further into the armchair, tilting his head up. Not in fear or challenge. Arthur knows what it means, his instincts tugging him forward, because it is an invitation, opening his body up for him. What? So, he wants Arthur to chase? To claim? Does he want to play games before the inevitable happens? Fine. 

“I’m-, “Eames starts, but then the glass slips from his hands and lands on the expensive carpet, scotch spilling, as Arthur spills himself into Eames’ lap. 

“Arthur, wait-“Eames chokes out. While Arthur wants nothing more than to pry that mouth open with his tongue and taste the words of him, he does stop,  
hands already cupping the man’s face, tilting it up towards him, his instincts screaming, yes, yes, expose your fucking throat to me - 

“What?” Arthur bites out irritated. His knees must be digging into Eames’ thighs, but the alpha either doesn’t care or doesn’t notice. His pupils are so blown Arthur can barely see the color anymore. What is his fucking problem?

“Arthur, fuck-“ Eames groans, when Arthur lets one hand slip down his jaw to his neck, fingers splaying over the side of it, squeezing where he knows the glands are, feeling the pulse under his palm rabbiting away. A dark sound vibrates through his throat at the feeling and he puts more of his weight forward, knows they will tip over if he pushes more. Not that he cares; at least it would mean they would finally be horizontal. 

“Arthur, Stop-!” Eames snaps, he tries to sound angry, pushing weakly at the omega’s shoulder and while the actions are feeble, the words are a cold bucket of water over his head and Arthur snarls, instead pushing against Eames’ shoulders, too, glaring down at him indignantly. 

“What the fuck is your problem?” he snaps, “Do you need a fucking written invitation from the United States of Fuck you, or what?” Why the fuck is Eames behaving like this? They are mates; they are supposed to be, for fuck’s sake! It’s ineluctable! This isn’t a matter of pick and choose!

“I don’t want to fucking mate with twenty six! Even less to someone I don’t fucking know, what the fuck is logical about meeting up and fucking mate?” Eames growls back, not as loud or vicious as Arthur, but his voice vibrates through his whole body and while one part of Arthur wants to put his mouth right over Eames’ jugular to feel it; another part of him shrinks down somewhat, knowing a reprimand when getting one. An omega knows to tread lightly around an alpha using that sound. 

Arthur breaths through his nose again, loud and long, trying to keep his fingers from curling around Eames’ neck too hart, his heart still racing, eyes squeezing shut.  
He can feel the dark, hot swirls of arousal heavily curling in the pit of his stomach, his skin aching to be touched. Their scents mingling already, intertwining. Can’t Eames smell it? Feel it? 

He forces his eyes back open and tries to concentrate on calming his breath down. Eames’ hands are on his waist, which isn’t helping, his fingers curling and uncurling against his hips rhythmically. For not wanting this, Eames isn’t doing a good job of trying to shove Arthur off, is he? 

“You don’t want this,” Arthur repeats frustrated, staring down at the alpha now, one hand curled around his shoulder, the other around the back of the chair above Eames’ head. 

“Is that why you stayed in the city? Went to such a nice hotel with a king sized bed in your apartment? Paid with the credit card you knew I had tabs on, because I found you through it the first time? That’s why you were waiting in the bar?” he asks him, eyes sharp and watching every blink and twitch in Eames’ face, the way his eyes flicker down briefly, mouth going slack, the way he swallows and looks up again, looks caught off guard, surprised; looks guilty and then horribly confused. 

“I-, “he starts, but stops himself, swallowing again and shaking his head. The sour scent of cold sweat reaches Arthur’s nose and he looks down to where a drop of it slowly slides down from Eames’ left sideburn along his temple. The smell prickles uncomfortably down his spine. This isn’t a smell supposed to be in this situation. Arthur leans down, pushes his tongue against the skin, dragging the salty line off him with a soothing sound almost. Eames goes rigid under him. 

“You wanted me to find you,” Arthur whispers determined against Eames’ ear shell, still curled above him. He brushes the bridge of his nose along it and swears he can hear a faint wheezing noise when Eames breaths out. 

“Fuuck..,” it’s a groan, deep and torn between giving in and cursing it and Arthur wishes the damn armchair was wider so that he could cage the other in with his knees and push his pelvis down. Come on, give in. You want this.

“I don’t- Arthur, fuck, don’t you care that-,“ Eames starts, voice strained and fingers digging almost painfully into his hip bones now, but Arthur interrupts him, his voice a dark murmur, “You’re going to be mine.” 

The world goes vertigo. 

His back collides with the mattress before he even registered that Eames have pushed them both out of the armchair and carried the two steps over to the bed before throwing Arthur onto it. The sounds he makes must be somewhere between a needy whine and a growl as he throws his arms around Eames’ shoulders, pulls him down. Eames goes willingly enough, which has Arthur’s chest almost burst open with want, need, joy – their lips crash together, hard. Arthur can taste blood and doesn’t know if it’s his own or Eames. He gasps into it and then bites down on Eames’ bottom lip, hard, while Eames tries to push him down. Arthur struggles to wrap his legs around his hips and tries to push him to the side to get on top. 

The omega cannot even say why he suddenly wants to fight and struggle. 

It is instinct. A confusing and thrilling mix of needing the alpha closer, under his skin, and wanting to buck him off – or maybe he just wants to try to get reassured that he can’t. That the alpha can hold him down and overpower him.  
He surges up, his teeth snapping for his neck, but the alpha’s hand is suddenly around his throat and pushes his head back down and Arthur chokes, high-pitched and struggles, one hand pressing against the alpha’s face, the other clawing at his shirt covered chest. A prickling sensation shoots down his arm a moment later and his breath stutters, when he realizes the alpha clamped his teeth over the pulse point of the wrist of the hand he has pushed against his face. 

The omega stills, eyes blown wide and watches as the alpha softly grazes his slightly crooked teeth over the pale skin afterwards and then brushes his nose along it. The omega is mesmerized. The fight goes out of him in a rush of breath, eyes still wide and heart hammering in his throat.  
The alpha pushes his hips down where he has managed to settle against Arthur’s pelvis and their crotches rub together. The omega wheezes slightly, even as the hand around his throat lifts. Eames keeps him pinned down easily now and the omega couldn’t have continued to struggle even if he wanted to. It’s like his body is not listening to him anymore. 

He watches with rapt attention, as the alpha noses along the inside of his arm with out most gentleness, until he is looming over him, hand curling in his hair and pulling tentatively, leaning down. The omega goes with the motion; eyes still wide and staring at the ceiling now, as the alpha’s face presses into his neck, breathing him in. The omega is barely aware of the fact that his breathing goes slow and wheezing, as the alpha presses him into the mattress and scents him. His body doesn’t cooperate with his brain anymore. Pliantly letting the alpha dominate him, all he does is stare at the ceiling with wide eyes, fingers spasm against the alpha’s side and into the covers of the bed, submitting. 

When the warm breath leaves his neck, the dampness sending a chill across his skin, the omega whimpers, trying to crane his head up to follow the warmth, but the alpha has one hand around his left wrist, pinned to the mattress. He squeezes and the omega melts back into the mattress, surrendering; breathing through his nose. 

The alpha lifts his body weight off him, getting on his knees and hands and the omega shudders, shaking at the loss and his hands want to shoot up again, but the alpha pushes him to the side and then grabs after his shoulder and hip to – oh, yes. 

The omega eagerly scrambles to turn around and lie on his stomach, pressing his face into the pillow and trying to get his knees under him on instinct. The alphas hands wrap around his hips. He bucks into the grip while he gets pulled up into the right position. 

He feels exposed; unprotected for a second, before the alpha’s body folds over his’, caging him in and the omega relaxes automatically, melting into it. He feels the alpha’s breath against his temple, whimpers in answer. The alpha’s scent is everywhere and he closes his eyes, greedily breathing him in, while the larger body drapes itself over him. His legs quiver, as he pushes his ass up, the glands in between his cheeks slowly leaking through the fabric of his shorts, his pants. 

His skin burns. His ears ring. His throat vibrates with each heaving breath of surrender.

The warm weight leaves his back as the alpha seemingly moves to the side for a moment to reach for something. The omega is about to verbalize his annoyance, when a familiar clicking mechanism that has Arthur’s heart stop sounds above him. And then something hard nudges against his nape. Arthur feels as if a bucket of ice water is being poured into his guts.

“You’re so fucking stupid, I can’t believe it.”

Arthur freezes, as understanding dawns on him. Eames is holding a gun against the back of his head. 

For a couple of seconds he doesn’t even dare to breath, eyes wide, even with his face shoved into the pillow. The world comes rushing in on him, everything crashing back into consciousness, like a breaking wave of scents, sounds, sensations.

The body behind him moves to the side, the mattress dipping under the weight, until Arthur feels it ease up as Eames gets to his feet, the barrel of the gun still steadily held against his neck. Arthur’s stomach churns, his limbs quiver as he feels bitter bile threatening to bubble up his throat.

“I could blow your brains out, if I wanted,” Eames' voice is calm, the hand steady, while Arthur’s heart is beating loud enough to drown out his own labored breathing in his ears. 

“Get up,” the alpha orders, gun nudging against nape, once, sharp, before drawing away enough for Arthur to scramble off the bed.

He feels on the verge of throwing up in shock as he manages to get his feet on the ground. Heart beating hard enough to feel the pressure in his eye balls, Arthur slowly turns around to him, the bed between them.

“You still think this is the next logical step?” Eames asks, the gun resting at his side now as he stares at Arthur, eyes still dark and chest trembling with panting breaths. Arthur’s eyes flicker down to his crotch automatically and Eames actually snarls at him, which has the omega’s snap his gaze back up to his face, take half a step back. 

“Fuck you,” Arthur hisses, rage bubbling up his throat joining in the sick feeling of hurt, heart hammering behind his eyeballs. 

Eames bares his teeth in an ugly deranged grin. “Some logic is that, huh? Slicking up all logically here?” 

“_Fuck_ you,” Arthur repeats viciously, shame coloring his cheeks, as his eyes darkens in rage now, fingers curling at his sides. What the fuck?! What the fucking hell?!

They stare at each other for a second, tension sickening Arthur to the stomach, until Eames suddenly chuckles, an ugly sound, shaking his head and tearing his eyes off, looking to the window to his right, then back to Arthur. Arthur can’t place the expression he is greeted with, doesn’t know what the fuck this is, what the fuck Eames want.

“We can’t even bloody stand each other, Arthur, why the fuck should we mate?”

Arthur feels his hackles rise, bristling back: “You just held a fucking gun to my head, you bastard, how the fuck did you think I would react like?!”

“That’s the bloody point, we’re both so fucking led by our hind-brain, we don’t even think anymore. You pride yourself on being so sharp and as soon as we’re in the same room, we’re only thinking with our dicks. We don’t care shit about who we are anymore, I’m just the alpha that’s going to fuck you silly and you’re just the omega going to get fucked.”

It’s like a punch to the face with a sledgehammer and Arthur is left reeling, staring at the alpha. He can’t fucking believe this. Throwing fucking hypocritical liberal left winged bullshit at him now?! “You fucking coward,” he seethes venomously, voice trembling in fury, “You’re just a fucking coward with commitment issues, using some kind of made up excuse-“

“Excuse? You just let me mount you without even knowing anything about me. I could have shot you, you stupid bastard. You just presented your dumb ass the moment we met-,”

“Fuck you, Eames!” Arthur interrupts the alpha, shame bubbling like acid in his stomach as he turns around and storms towards the door, not wanting to hear any more of this bullshit. A tiny, stupid part of him hopes for a hand on his shoulder, an arm around his waist, a voice, trying to stop him-  
The door closes behind him and he stands in the silent corridor, ears ringing, heart breaking. The door doesn’t open again, he keeps standing for a handful of seconds, staring down at his own feet.

He manages to get to the lift before his legs give out under him and he slowly slides down the wall, just as the doors close behind him. His fist connects with the wall to his left, but all it does is sending screaming pain up his arm. He pulls his legs close to his chest and curls over his knees, breathing harshly through his nose and gripping his shins to keep himself from lashing out again.

\---

His fingers are still trembling when he sinks into the armchair of the hotel room, stomach churning sourly from dry-swallowing the heat-contraceptive meds he had gotten on his way back from the pharmacy. They will fuck so much with his system, he already feels sick thinking about it. Feels sick remembering the pitying look the receptionist had given him. He reaches for the water on the small couch table, barely managing to open it and spilling half of it as he tries to pour himself a glass. 

Taking two sips he feels like throwing it right up again and sets the glass back down, fingers curling into the arm rests, refusing to curl in on himself again.  
He rejected you – the thought is taking rounds and rounds in his head like an ugly echo he can’t get rid of. He held a fucking gun to my head. He could have shot me. I didn’t even notice. He held a fucking gun to my head. Why did he say those things? Why did he do this? Why did he do any of what he did? Why did he - He rejected you. Your mate doesn’t want you. Your mate held a gun to your head and kicked you out. Your mate rejected you. _Why did he reject me? What did I do wrong?_

He feels as if his seams are sewn too tight. He didn’t know that you could feel so awful and ashamed and angry all at once without tearing apart. 

\---

When he meets with Dom and Mal 40 hours later, he is still nauseous, still confused and so, so angry.


End file.
